


When I Watch the World Burn

by JumanjiiCostco



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, absolutely not canon, listen i have a lot of feelings about astrid and they went here, they're definitely throwing the word "crick" around like nobody's business, this document is literally titled "what the fuck caro" bc i hate myself for this, who the fuck lets me write things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-23 21:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JumanjiiCostco/pseuds/JumanjiiCostco
Summary: "He still haunts her; never ages, never changes, just stands there as a broken memory, blue eyes smoke-glazed and mad. Sometimes in her periphery, sometimes in her dreams. "Astrid will never be able to forget Bren Ermendrud, even if she wants to.





	When I Watch the World Burn

He still haunts her; never ages, never changes, just stands there as a broken memory, blue eyes smoke-glazed and mad. Sometimes in her periphery, sometimes in her dreams. It takes a concentrated effort to keep him out, an active reminding that he is still mad, still aging, still unable to help himself or her. 

But Master Ikithon has made his name mythical. Bren Aldric Ermendrud, the martyr who broke for the cause. He is a war hero. He is a legend. He is a story to be told to every new Scourger. His name will never die. And neither, for better or worse, will his memory. She’s expected to contribute, to build up the legend and the name and the memory. He was her friend, after all. Her first love. 

She’s not good at it, though. The things she gives away are hollow half-truths. Because Bren, for all of his passion and talent and strength, wasn’t perfect. He didn’t want to be a martyr. He didn’t want to be a memory. He was withdrawn, studious, brilliant and quiet. And still proud, still so, so proud. He was a terrible dancer and a charming liar. He was so very human, but there is no room for humanity in myth. There is no room for her Bren, her liebling, in the solid scope of marble and gold embossment they’ve made him out to be. 

He still haunts her, though he never speaks. She fears, sometimes, that she’s forgotten the sound of his voice. That all she’ll ever remember of him is this--smoke and madness. A shattering mind behind blue eyes. There is nothing left of him but pain and whispers, Ikithon’s attempts be damned. His name is legend but he is not. Bren is a legend, but his soul is gone. Has been gone for over a decade. 

Fire made it harder. Harder to breathe, harder to drown out the silence, harder to think. Eodwulf liked to burn the Cricks to get them to talk. They were so… sensitive. But even their screams weren’t enough. It seemed nothing was. 

So she carried him with her baggage, tucked him neatly away into a suitcase, only to pull and air out when she could. And when he wormed his way through the cracks--he always did, sly as he ever--she would do it again. The only regret. The only thing she would go back and change. 

Not the crystals, not the worst parts of her duty to the Empire, not the things she said to turn Eodwulf away in the aftermath. 

Just Bren.

Burning the Cricks to the ground will be easy, and if she’s lucky, maybe their screams will drown out the silence for a while. 

  
  


And so he still haunts her. 

And so she still lets him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title pulled from the song "Doom Days" by Bastille--which, if you go and listen to it, is a perfect Bren/Astrid song. So be forewarned. 
> 
> And you can find me, as always, on all social media platforms under @JumanjiiCostco. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
